


One Week in Paradise

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom Greg Lestrade, Confident Mycroft, Flirting, Fluffy Ending, Frottage, Happy Ending, Holiday Fling, M/M, Moving Fast, Pining, Top Mycroft, alternate title: How Greg Got His Groove Back, from acquaintances to lovers to in love in a blink, holiday romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 14:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22257829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: To celebrate surviving his drawn-out divorce, Greg takes himself on holiday to a Caribbean island resort. He figures a little sun, a little sand, and maybe a fling will see him right. He doesn't expect to run into someone he knows there, much less fall into bed--and love--with that someone.
Relationships: Greg/Mycroft, Mystrade - Relationship
Comments: 44
Kudos: 288





	1. On the Beach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trillian_jdc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillian_jdc/gifts).



> This fic was written for Johanna Draper Carlson (@johannadc)--thank you for bidding on me during the Mark Gatiss Birthday Auction! I'm sorry this took me so long, and in the end it wasn't any of the ideas we discussed >_< What can I say? My muse had definite ideas of its own--as did Mycroft. Hope this is rom-com enough for you!

Giving a happy moan and wiggle, Greg tipped his head up towards the sun. After weeks of dreary London weather and endless work headaches, it felt bloody wonderful to stretch out in his lounger and bask in the Carribean sun. Let the soft susurrus of the waves on the sand, the cry of shorebirds and romping holiday-goers wash away the clatter of keyboards, incessant ringing of phones and the constant calls of his name.

“Mr Lestrade? Your rum punch, sir.”

That was one calling of his name he was happy to answer. Opening his eyes, Greg sat up slightly, “Great, thanks.” He dashed off his signature on the tab and added a nice tip. The accommodating waiter took away the empty glass he’d just drained and he adjusted his lounger, sipping his drink as he surveyed the private beach through his Ray-Bans. This holiday was going to cost him a pretty penny, but it was his divorce gift to himself. He and Ellen had been separated for almost five years, but it had taken a hellacious fight to finally call it quits--and get the paperwork to prove it.

“Bon voyage, bitch,” Greg whispered, toasting with his glass. He paused, wincing. “Sorry, Elle--you’re not a bitch, that’s rude. Goodbye, witch. No. Nope, that’s not fair to witches.” He still hadn’t settled on the right appellation when his attention was caught by a pair of long legs passing by. They were revealed by neat navy swim shorts, and led up to a lean torso, covered by a linen shirt, terminating in a wind-tousled head of auburn curls. Mmm. The man was eye-catchingly good looking.

Greg felt a distinct stirring of interest. It had been years since he’d been with anyone other than Ellen, aside from one or two disappointing encounters during the separation. It had been longer still since he’d been with a man.  _ Hello, _ Greg thought with interest, absent-mindedly slurping down a good third of his drink,  _ my name is Greg and I’ve been celibate for two years.  _

Hmm, needed work. Toying with the straw in his glass, Greg watched the figure recede in the distance, a bit let down that he’d never see him again. His chance might have passed by with that bloke, but nothing said he couldn’t take the plunge with the next good looking man to catch his eye. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Several hours later, sunscreen, sweat and sand showered off of him, Greg dressed in a black and white Hawaiian print shirt and gray Bermudas. The resort was exclusive, but not terribly formal. Thank fuck, or he’d have felt wildly out of place. Splashing on a bit of cologne, he picked up his wallet and mobile, heading out to the hotel bar. There were three restaurants on the grounds of the resort itself--a bistro, a steak-and-seafood joint, and a very swanky five star French place he’d no intentions of getting near. Too rich for his blood; Greg knew he’d never have any reason to step foot inside. It was a spot for rich people and honeymooners. 

He didn’t mind eating alone, but it was his first proper night here and Greg decided he’d just have a whisky at the bar and maybe order a burger or something. See if he could strike up a friendly conversation with someone. If he were really lucky, it would be a handsome someone, willing to enter into a light holiday flirtation. Thoughts of the redhead from earlier had been drifting in and out of his mind all day.

The bar was dim and cool, lit only by discreet sconces and the eerie blue light of large aquariums. Greg lingered in front of the largest of them, idly wandering along, watching the lazy flow of the fish within. He paused, studying the fluid movements of an eel, only to have his eye caught by something distinctly unfishy on the other side of the glass. There was a man watching him--the man from earlier that day on the beach, he realized with a thrill--bearded, wearing black-framed glasses instead of sunglasses, dressed casually in linen. He tipped his head, smiling a little, and with a deep-water shock, Greg realized a beat later that it was Mycroft Holmes.

He was still gaping unattractively when the other man came around to Greg’s side of the aquarium, half-finished glass of amber liquid in his hand. “Gregory Lestrade,” he greeted him, smiling that half-smile. 

“Uh...Mycroft,” Greg replied brilliantly. “Hey.”

“I’d no idea you holiday’d here,” Mycroft observed, sipping his drink. He was...so relaxed. So different from the buttoned-up man Greg was used to seeing, that his mind felt like it was moving in slow motion. “This is quite a coincidence.”

“Isn’t it?” Greg said dumbly. He wished he had a drink or something to occupy his hands. “Do you--do you come here often?” Realizing it sounded like the world’s lamest pick up line, he bit his lip, “Er, I meant, do you come here every year?”   
  


Mycroft looked like he was trying not to smirk. “Not every year, no. Often enough.”

“‘s my first time.” Greg paused, “Here, I mean. My first time coming here.”

Mycroft was definitely smirking now. “So I gathered.” He rattled the ice in his glass, “Join me for dinner?”

“Oh I--”

“Unless of course you’re meeting someone here?”

“No,” Greg said, clearing his suddenly raspy throat, “No, um, I’m here completely alone.”

Mycroft’s eyes glittered. He looked pleased. Greg felt warm, thinking about his earlier half-formed daydreams about the man. “As am I. So, Gregory, join me for dinner?”

“That’d be, yeah,  _ great.” _ It was delivered with more enthusiasm than was probably seemly or dignified, but it seemed to delight Mycroft. “Call me Greg? Gregory makes me feel like I’m being called up in front of the headmaster.”

Mycroft laughed, “Well we can’t have that. Greg it is.” He seemed to take pleasure in forming Greg’s name, as if it tasted good on his tongue. Greg shoved aside thoughts of what else Mycroft could taste with his tongue.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Greg found himself sitting at a small table for two in a dark corner of the bar, a glass of whisky in front of him, scanning the menu. He’d never been one to try and impress dates with what he ate; he had simple tastes, although he liked to think he was pretty adventurous. Now he jettisoned his half-formed ideas of a burger and chips and wondered which one of these upscale pub-grub type items would be least likely to make him look like a slavering caveman in front of a sneering Mycroft. 

Not that Mycroft was sneering. He was smiling, looking at Greg over the top of his own menu. “I think I’ll have the Kobe beef burger,” Mycroft mused, finger brushing over his lower lip. Greg thought about how kissable it looked. He forced his eyes away and looked at his own menu. “With polenta chips, hmm, or the sweet potato chips...”

“Both sound good,” Greg said, gone hoarse again. He cleared his throat. Crikey, what was wrong with him? “

“What about you?” Mycroft asked, leaning on one elbow, smiling at Greg. “What are you interested in?”

“Oh, um...a burger sounds good...but the battered cod sandwich with pineapple-mango slaw…”

“Excellent choice as well,” Mycroft approved. “I was looking at that myself. Perhaps we could share?”

Greg met his eyes and felt warmth sweep over him. Mycroft’s eyes were a dazzling grey-blue, intense, yet somehow warm. How the hell had he gone from sad divorced bloke to a lucky sod on a gorgeous beach, sitting across the table from a beautiful man who was looking at him like he was hungry and Greg was dinner?  _ I’ll share anything you like, _ he thought, warmth suffusing him.

“So,” Mycroft said, once they’d placed their order and received fresh drinks, “How does a handsome man like yourself come to be vacationing alone?” He scooped up one of the fresh pasta crisp and crab nachos and took a voracious bite, licking cream sauce from his lips.

Greg’s breath caught. Okay, that was...open to interpretation. “Um, gift to myself. Sort of ‘congrats on being shot of your ex-wife!’ holiday.”

“The papers came through then?” Mycroft nudged the starter closer to Greg, leaning his elbows on the table. Greg tore his eyes away from Mycroft’s bare forearms, which were unfairly displayed to best advantage.

“Yeah, finally. Elle finally stopped fighting it.” Greg smiled, a little bitterly, “She didn’t want to be married to me, but she didn’t want to let me go, either.”

“I can understand not wanting to let you go,” Mycroft murmured. His eyes flashed up to Greg’s and his smile was, wow, yeah, definitely telegraphing interest. “My only confusion lies in how she could possibly desire another man when she had you in her bed.”

Greg put his nacho down uneaten. “Um, I’m maybe misreading the hell out of this, but are you...are you hitting on me?”

Mycroft’s smile was lopsided, “Forgive me, Greg,” he said, and Greg’s stomach swooped in disappointment. Not only had he gotten it wrong and had no doubt ruined their nice evening, but Mycroft was probably swallowing hysteria at the idea that Greg could possibly have thought he was interested in him. “It seems I’m rather rusty at flirting if you’re in doubt that I am indeed hitting on you.”

Greg’s breath whooshed out of him, fluttering the hurricane lamp on the table. He stared at Mycroft with wide eyes. “Wow,” he finally said, and watched a hint of uncertainty flare in Mycroft’s eyes. Wanting to squash it immediately, he dared to reach across the table and put his fingertips on Mycroft’s wrist. “Thought it was just wishful thinking on my part.” He bit his lip, feeling the urge to grin wildly sweep over him. “Guess I’m rusty at being hit on, huh?”

“Perhaps we could...help one another exercise those unused skills, hmm?” Mycroft stroked Greg’s ankle with the toe of his shoe under the table, eyes half-lidded. “I’ve other areas I’d be most delighted to receive your assistance with…”

  
  



	2. In Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft always worked well together, mostly because Greg was content to follow Mycroft's lead. Despite what he'd once told Sherlock, he DID tend to do what Mycroft told him. Turns out he likes that in bed as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be sex. Honestly nothing outré but I did rate the fic Mature for the content herein.

Mycroft pressed Greg against the wall next to his hotel room door, hands warm and firm on his hips. Their mouths tangled lazily, tongues stroking. Greg felt warm and happy, relaxed from the whiskey and hours of brilliant conversation. Mycroft had proved to be a very able flirt once it was clear Greg welcomed his attention--their table had abounded with teasing banter and suggestive glances.

Mycroft kissed his way down Greg’s neck, nuzzling at the open collar of his shirt, the soft prickle of his beard brushing Greg’s warm skin, wringing shivers from him. “Would it be wildly presumptuous of me to mention that I have condoms in my room?” His right hand slid up, squeezed at Greg’s waist.

Greg closed his eyes, fighting the urge to let his internal  _ squee! _ become vocal. “Bold--but not unfounded.”

Mycroft breathed a laugh against the hollow of his throat, “Boldness wins the day.”

“I...like bold,” Greg managed, opening heavy-lidded eyes to seek Mycroft’s delicious mouth, “‘m I dreaming?”

“Does this _ feel  _ like a dream?” Mycroft asked, taking his hand and pulling Greg after him, presumably to go to his condom-filled room.

“Little,” Greg admitted, following him into the lift. “Meeting a sexy man on holiday, going back to his room for wild sex.”

Mycroft pressed a button and leaned against the back wall of the lift, smiling a little. He gave Greg another of those sizzling looks from under lowered lashes, “Hope I can live up to ‘wild.’”

“Anything would be more wild than two years of my own hand,” Greg blurted.

Mycroft barked out a laugh, “I see we’re similarly inclined to neglecting our physical needs in pursuit of work.”

“Wasn’t all work, divorce sort of knocked the pins out from under me.” Greg crowded in close, liking how Mycroft’s hands automatically found their way to his body again. “What about you? Can’t be for lack of opportunity. Those toffs in Whitehall must be all over you.” He nibbled on Mycroft’s neck, which he was finding to be extremely irresistible. Good thing it was normally covered by high-buttoned collars and ties, or he’d have spent the last who knows how many meetings with the man distracted to the point of idiocy.

“I’m not much of one for ‘toffs,’” Mycroft said dryly, “The majority of them tend to be dreadful in bed.”

The lift doors opened with a chime and Greg reluctantly peeled himself from Mycroft, who put his arm around Greg’s waist and guided him out into a small hallway. Taking a keycard from his pocket, he opened the door. Greg paused, taking in the spacious suite. There were expansive views of the sea and the glowing lights of the resort out of the large windows along two of the walls. They must be on the top floor, in one of the two huge penthouse suites. “Damn,” he whistled. 

“I didn’t bring you here for the view,” Mycroft laughed, passing him with a warm press of his hand on the small of Greg’s back. “Drink?”

“Think I’ve had enough,” Greg said, tearing his eyes away from the spangled expanse laid out before them. He put his hand in his pockets, walking across the room to where Mycroft was pouring bottled water into two squat crystal tumblers, “Thanks.” He drank half his water in one gulp, eyes on Mycroft, who was sipping his with a secret smile.

“The bed is sinfully comfortable,” Mycroft remarked, putting down his glass. His eyes glittered, “And quite...large.”

“Show me,” Greg invited, setting his own glass aside, barely looking to make sure it made it safely to the table. He was consumed by the fire in Mycroft’s eyes, by the thought of what they could do in a bed. 

The bed was bloody  _ huge. _ “It’s big alright,” Greg sassed, smirking over his shoulder at Mycroft. 

“It’s not just down to size alone,” Mycroft’s mouth curled into a smoky smile, “Performs well, too.”

“Can’t wait to see for m’self,” Greg husked, reaching for Mycroft’s shirt buttons. He was going to go slow, make it last; unwrapping Mycroft Holmes was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. But when his fingers brushed the bare skin of Mycroft’s chest, heat rose between them in a rush; brown eyes met blue, blown wide with startled passion, and they were lost.

_ “Lestrade,” _ Mycroft groaned, neck arching as his back hit the bed with a bounce. “Christ, why are you so far away?”

Greg, straddling his thighs, grinned at him, “Lemme get closer, then.” He leaned over, planting his palms on either side of Mycroft’s head, then yelped as Mycroft dragged him closer. They kissed again, more a duel this time than an exploration. He groaned deep in his chest as Mycroft clutched at his arse with greedy hands and plundered his mouth, ramping up Greg’s desire. Greg rocked down against Mycroft’s answering hardness, “Lestrade, is it? Thought I asked you to call me Greg,” he teased, biting softly at Mycroft’s mouth.

“Mm, if it makes you keep doing that,” Mycroft panted, palming Greg’s arse in his hands and urging him to rock against him. “I’ll call you whatever you like. Wait--let’s--get undressed. I need to feel you.”

They grunted a bit, tussling to get their own and one another’s clothes off without leaving the bed. When Greg neary smacked Mycroft in the face with one flailing elbow, they burst into breathless laughter. “Hold on,” Greg snickered, climbing off the bed. He tore the rest of his clothes off with record haste, then climbed back onto the bed, helping Mycroft get his trousers off. He paused, struck by Mycroft’s gorgeousness, lying there in front of him, shirt unbuttoned, black briefs hugging his slim form. “Look at you,” he breathed, running his fingertips over Mycroft’s torso. “Fuck.”

Mycroft’s eyes closed, and he smiled almost dreamily, hands moving to cover Greg’s. He guided them up and down his chest. Eyes opening lazily, he gave Greg a soft look, “Mm, feels good, having you touch me.”

“Feels good to touch you,” Greg replied, bending to kiss him. They lost themselves in kissing, rolling onto their sides when Greg’s knees began to ache. He draped one leg over Mycroft’s at first, but it didn’t allow contact between their groins. 

“Here,” Mycroft urged breathlessly, moving Greg’s leg down, and scooting closer on the ridiculously soft mattress. He slotted their hips tightly together, propped his head on his hand and with the other urged Greg to rock against him. His eyes were bright as he watched Greg shudder.

It felt incredible; Greg hissed, desire spiking in him. He rose up, bit Mycroft’s lower lip, nibbling on his mouth, drinking in his gasps. They’d forgotten about the condoms and lube, caught up in one another. “Should we…”

“This is good for me,” Mycroft swallowed, pupils huge, “you?”

“Can’t imagine it would be any better than this,” Greg managed, shuddering at the slide of Mycroft’s cock against his. “We can...ah...get a-adventurous later…”

“We have all night,” Mycroft agreed, taking his mouth hungrily. He rolled them so Greg was on his back, and moved sinuously against him, hands tight on Greg’s body. “Let me watch you fall apart, Greg...make you dirty…” He bit Greg’s collarbone, soothed the sting with soft laps of his tongue, “Let’s get filthy…”

Greg whimpered, eyes falling closed as he clung to Mycroft. His stomach was tight as his orgasm approached. It had been so long since he’d felt this desired, this wanted, been ages since someone else touched him with tenderness and need. “Mycroft…”

Mycroft continued in a persuasive whisper, “Then I’ll take you to the bath, clean you up...lay you out on this bed and work you open slowly. Will you let me use my mouth and fingers on you? Hmm? Get you nice and soft and relaxed…” he lowered his head, licking at the dampness of sweat gathering in the hollow of Greg’s throat. His lips moved against Greg’s skin as he continued, “I want to touch you for  _ hours…” _

“Mycroft!” Greg climaxed, back arching as he came, fingertips digging deeply into Mycroft’s back as he held him tightly. He was dimly aware of his groaning and the wet heat growing between their bodies.

“Yes,” Mycroft soothed, “Yes, Greg...just lie back and let me love you…” Greg couldn’t look away from the intensity of Mycroft’s gaze, tangled up in how intimate it felt to be seeing him so vulnerable in this moment. His legs were weak from the strength of his release, but his hands shook from the power of his overwhelming feelings.

Slack and sated, Greg held him loosely, scarcely able to open his eyes as Mycroft dipped his mouth down to capture Greg’s in a searing kiss. His movements were urgent now, as Mycroft chased after his own release. Greg slid his hands down Mycroft’s back, cupping his arse and bringing their hips tightly together as Mycroft’s cock slid wetly against Greg’s softening one. He kissed and bit at Mycroft’s bristled jaw, because he couldn’t reach his mouth--Mycroft had his head flung back, groaning, as he came.

Winded, they clung limply to one another, hands idly soothing the other. Greg, recovering first, tipped Mycroft’s face up, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“F’r what?” Mycroft all but slurred, sounding blissed out, almost sleepy.

_ For making me feel loved, _ Greg wanted to say. That was idiotic though. They’d shared an orgasm, not found love. But it was the first time in forever that he’d felt cared for and appreciated fully. Despite drifting on post-coital waves of bliss, Greg felt as if he was inhabiting his body fully for the first time in years. “For making me feel good,” he finally said simply, and wrapped his arms around Mycroft. 

Almost childlike--if not for their nudity and the intimacy of their position--Mycroft snuggled into his arms, lying his head on Greg’s chest. He hummed a little, and Greg’s arms tightened around him, feeling a protective tenderness invading his heart. For just a little while he could hold this normally powerful and intimidating man and let him be soft and vulnerable. Lying his cheek against the top of Mycroft’s head, Greg closed his eyes, smiling.


	3. In Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has to deal with real life when his holiday is over. Sometimes having the dream is more painful than it was worth. And sometimes we get our happy ever after.

Returning to his work-a-day life from the dreamy perfection of holiday had never been so hard for Greg before. Leaving an idyllic island for the mist and bustle of London was hard enough. Leaving the hotel bed he’d spent six amazing, life-changing nights in had been agonizing. 

Leaving behind the fledgling romance he’d begun to forge with Mycroft was gut-wrenching. Greg wasn’t sure he’d ever formed such an intense connection with anyone before. He tried telling himself it was just the magic of a holiday, the influence of sun and sea and flirting over candlelight dinners, falling hungrily into bed, falling asleep in one another’s arms, pressed so tightly together that it was impossible to distinguish one heartbeat from another. It was holiday magic--nothing that would survive real life.

But it was more than that. It  _ was. _ Mycroft had pried open his ribcage and crawled into him, made a home for himself in Greg’s battered, wary heart. Now that Greg was back in London there was a gaping hole inside him, a constant feeling of emptiness and loneliness worse than anything he’d experienced during his separation and divorce proceedings. He tried burying himself in work, and his usual social activities, but everything was gray and flat, as if his life were painted in shades of ash and soot.

What made it worse were the friendly inquiries after his holiday. What was he supposed to tell them?  _ I spent a week in the arms of the most amazing man I’ve ever met? _ Greg had a scarcity of photographs to share, even. They’d spent most of their time in bed, or lounging behind the sheers of Mycroft’s private beach cabana, touching one another with restrained longing. He had no snaps of excursions--they’d gone on so little, and the solo moonlight boat ride of the bay was just for them. There weren’t even any ubiquitous pics of his meals. Most of those had been consumed in bed between kisses, or hardly touched as they leaned across the table from one another, feet touching beneath the table, hands tangled among the china.

There was one photo Greg would cherish forever, but it was nothing he could share. On their last morning he’d lain in Mycroft’s arms, closing his eyes against the unwelcome intrusion of sunlight around the edges of the curtains, refusing to think that they had less than twenty-four hours together. Mycroft had moved; Greg opened his eyes to see Mycroft holding his mobile. He’d glanced up at him, surprised. Mycroft’s expression was uncertain, “Is this…? May I take a photo?”

Greg had nodded dumbly and laid his head back down, closing his eyes against an upswell of emotion. Mycroft took the photo and then put his phone down, arm closing back around Greg. “Thank you,” he’d whispered, kissing Greg’s hair.

“Send me it?” Greg had asked softly.

“I shall.”

It wasn’t until he was sitting in the airport, waiting in dumb misery on his flight to be called, that Mycroft had sent the photo. Eyes glossing with tears, Greg read the brief message,  _ Thank you for the most magical week of my life. _

In the picture he looked just as in love as he’d felt, lying there in Mycroft’s arms. What had stunned him though was the look on Mycroft’s face; naked emotion. Gone was the man who could bring criminals and politicians to their knees. Gone was the exasperated older brother. In his place was Mycroft, the man who had loved Greg so fiercely for six days that he’d made it feel simultaneously like a lifetime and the blink of an eye.

Greg couldn’t even respond. He’d shoved his phone in his pocket and slid on his sunglasses, hiding his burning eyes.

He felt as if ever since that last morning, when he’d finally dragged himself from bed and left for the airport, leaving a sad, sleepy Mycroft behind, that his life was missing a vital piece. A constant off-kilter feeling, and a cloud of depression hung over him. It was amazing no one could seem to see it. Just the opposite, in fact. A few people commented that he wasn’t as tan as usual, but they seemed to assume he’d had a grand time. “Probably miss the beach and all those Mai Tais, eh, you lucky bastard?” 

Weirdly he’d gotten hit on twice, and more than one person had tried to set him up on blind dates. He was at the point of wanting to go straight home rather than stop by the pub and be subjected to another workmate ‘casually’ dropping by with a suitable candidate. He supposed that somehow people could tell he’d finally broken his dry spell and a sort of chemical signal was being sent that he was sexually available. Only he wasn’t, not really. No, Greg’s body might be here in London, going through the motions, but his heart was back in that hotel, in that rumpled bed, wrapped around Mycroft. 

His one tentative text, inquiring if Mycroft had made it back to London alright, went unanswered. Looked like the question he’d been too chicken to ask Mycroft, if they had a shot of continuing this when they were back to their real lives, had been answered.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“Why does this shite always happen just as I’m set to go home?” Greg growled, slapping his notebook shut and shoving it in his trench coat pocket. He glared up at the drizzle falling from a slowly darkening sky. “So much for an early dinner and a decent bedtime.”

“Heads up,” Donovan warned him, “Incoming.”

Glancing in the direction he was scowling, he half expected to see Sherlock descending upon them, even though he hadn’t called on him. This was a standard-issue domestic violence situation and-- ah Christ no.

His heart seized, stuttering, only to begin pounding with a bewildering combination of dread and longing. A familiar saloon car was parked at the kerb. This would be the first time he’d seen Mycroft, and Greg wasn’t prepared. There hadn’t been so much as a text from the other man in the last three weeks, three weeks which stretched behind him as empty and cold as the future in front of him. The silence said as clearly as if Mycroft had spoken the words, that what had passed between them was an aberration, unrepeatable and never to be spoken of.

Even though he knew Mycroft’s presence here at a crime scene didn’t mean the other man was about to swoop in and declare his undying love, Greg still went dry-mouthed, heart beating fast and hopeful in his chest. He ignored Donovan at his side, staring at the car as the door opened, only for his hopes to plummet, when instead of the subtle sheen of expensive hand-made Oxfords, he saw the patent leather pumps of Mycroft’s assistant emerge. Snapping open an umbrella against the drizzle, she picked her way delicately through the puddles, looking like a misplaced modern-day princess in her tailored blouse and pencil skirt.

“Blimey,” he heard Donovan whisper, “Who’s the princess?”

Greg moved forward, eyes on Anthea, “Hey.”   
  


“Detective Inspector,” she greeted, fetching up where he stood hunched under the shabby shelter of the building’s overhang. “I’ve come to deliver a message.”

“Yeah?” he asked hoarsely. His heart thudded painfully at his ribs.

Her eyes were impossible to read. Holding out a slim manila folder, she stood silently as he fumbled to open it with shaking fingers. There was a single page inside, stark white. Standing out against it, as if branded by fire, was a single line, written in bold black ink. 

**_If you can find it in yourself to forgive my weeks of silence, I beg you to call upon me at your earliest convenience._ **

Heart in his throat, Greg gripped the folder so tightly the stiff paper bent. Suddenly clammy-handed, he closed the page, protecting that single, fragile sentence from stray eyes and raindrops. His eyes rose to Anthea’s; she regarded him in silence for a moment, then said quietly, “Inspector, if your response to this ovrature isn’t one hundred percent enthusiastic, I’d ask you to let me know now and I’ll deliver the news.”

An unamused laugh left him on a breath. “You think I might be unenthusiastic?” He bit his lip, fighting a grin, “All that’s been holding me back from going to him was thinking he didn’t want me.”

He didn’t imagine the tightness around her eyes easing. She almost smiled at him, “Thank you, Inspector. I’ll let my employer know to expect you as soon as might be reasonable, given the hour and the circumstances.”

“Do that,” Greg urged, wishing he could hustle her into the car and demand she take him directly to Mycroft. Unfortunately he had duties he couldn’t escape.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Several hours later, damp from rain and a recent shower, Greg wiped nervous hands on his trousers and rang the bell for the Diogenes. Going through the usual, slightly-outlandish routine actually calmed him, and by the time he was admitted to Mycroft’s private suite of offices, he was less jittery. As soon as he stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him, his eyes found Mycroft, and his nerves left him.

The same couldn’t be said for Mycroft. 

This wasn’t the teasing, relaxed, playful Mycroft of the island. Nor the curt, businesslike Mycroft of old. This Mycroft almost radiated tension and misery; his pallor and unhappiness were visible on him. Gone were the beard and glasses, the artlessly rumpled linen, the easy smile. In their place were the bespoke pinstripes, which Greg had always viewed as armour, but which he now realized were nothing more than a shiny carapace, distracting the eye from the fragile being which lived underneath. Anyone else looking at Mycroft wouldn’t be able to distinguish a difference from the man he’d been last month.

Greg could. In an instant he saw how painfully every moment apart had torn at Mycroft, loneliness hooking into him like a predator’s talons, shredding his composure. He wanted to stride across the room and enfold him in his arms more than he’d ever wanted anything in the world, so he did just that, letting out a shaky breath when he felt the solid warmth of Mycroft’s body against his once more.

Mycroft’s eyes rounded as Greg approached, glossing with emotion, and something soft happened to his mouth, distorting it. “Greg,” he whispered, and clung to him when Greg reached him. His arms went around Greg with equal fervency, and they just held one another tight, face buried in the other’s neck. Greg’s shoulders heaved and he felt Mycroft shake. “I missed you every single moment we were apart,” Mycroft whispered, blinking damp eyelashes against Greg’s neck. “The past three weeks have been  _ agony.” _

“I haven’t been able to  _ breathe _ without you,” Greg confessed, holding him tighter. He pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s neck, just above the perfectly pressed collar of his shirt. “God, sunshine, I missed waking up smelling like you.”

“You’re in my very pores,” Mycroft gasped, pulling away, framing Greg’s face with his hands, “I can’t bear not to be near you. Greg--” he choked, swallowed back tears, went on roughly, “I’m  _ so sorry _ I ignored your text.”

“Shh,” Greg soothed, stroking his thumb over Mycroft’s cheek, tenderly kissing his lips, “It’s self-preservation, isn’t it?” Mycroft nodded dumbly, tilting his head into Greg’s touch. “How long’s it been since you let someone in?”

Mycroft’s eyelids fluttered as Greg smoothed a hand up his back, rucking the line of his jacket, palming his skin-warmed shirt. “At all? Y-years.” He opened his eyes, no longer anxious, but just as intense. “But I’ve never let anyone as close to me as you--never felt like this before.”

“Me either,” Greg husked, kissing him delicately. He hummed, smiling as Mycroft kissed him back with rising desperation. “You’re one of a kind, Mycroft Holmes.”

“I’m...not easy,” Mycroft warned, trying to look formidable. It was rather ruined by his disordered hair and lovestruck eyes. He licked his lips, “A relationship with me is, is fraught with everyday obstacles, due to my career.” He looked so serious Greg longed to smooth his brow and tell him it would be alright. “Never mind the flaws in my-my character. I’m difficult to like. I’m--not like I was on the island.”

Greg felt the indulgent smile spreading, it didn’t ease Mycroft’s worried look, “Mycroft, I’ve known you for well on to a decade now. I know you--about as well as you let anyone know you--and I like you. I liked you before that week. I--well, I had a thing for you but figured it was a pipe dream. I didn’t go to bed with you because I was on holiday and it was a wild fling. I went to bed with you because I wanted you-- _ you, _ Mycroft Holmes. Here, there, wherever I can get you.”

“I should have kept my distance, let you forget about that week and move on with your life,” Mycroft fussed, “but I’ve been miserable without you.” His fingers curled in Greg’s shirt-front, as if he feared he was about to tear himself away and leave. “I couldn’t stop watching you on CCTV--I saw how unhappy you were, and I-I thought, if you wanted to see--”

“Show me,” Greg vowed, holding his face in his hands, staring intensely into Mycroft’s worried eyes, “I want to see everything with you, Mycroft. The good, the bad, the amazing. Maybe we’ll burn out in a year, or a month, maybe we’ll celebrate our golden wedding anniversary. I don’t care. All I care about is spending as much time with you as I can.” He stopped talking, kissing Mycroft’s trembling lips, hushing his uneven breaths, until Mycroft softened, sinking against him. “Told you the truth just now--I can’t breathe without you, Mycroft. I’m walking around like a ghost, living half a life.”

Mycroft’s eyes were damp but dazzling, “Greg are you  _ sure?” _

“Yeah,” Greg promised, voice hoarse, tears wetting his own cheeks, “Give me all you’ve got, Mycroft, every laugh and tear and the whole fucking world. It’ll be worth it if I have you.”


	4. In Your Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft revisit the island where they found love.

_ Eleven months later… _

  
  


To celebrate the anniversary of their first holiday together Greg and Mycroft had made reservations to return to the island. The days leading up to departure were jam-packed for both of them, with too many calls upon their time. Greg was trying to tie up every possible loose end so he could leave for two weeks with a clear conscious. The morning they left, he met Mycroft in Whitehall to take care of one final thing before they boarded a jet bound for the Caribbean. They wanted to toast one another on the same beach where they had fallen in love. 

Fond as were the memories they had made in Mycroft’s suite, they’d opted for one of the private villas, higher up the mountain, lost among the trees. They were guaranteed solitude, as the staff would only visit when summoned. For the first three days they didn’t summon them at all, until they ran out of fresh towels. Greg had asked Mycroft to ensure the kitchen was stocked with simple ingredients, so they needn’t descend to the resort and eat at one of the restaurants, or call for room service. They mostly lived on fruit and scrambled eggs, too hungry for one another to bother with food. 

Eventually though, they decided to emerge and celebrate at an actual table with a real meal. “You won’t tell me anything at all?” Mycroft asked beseechingly, drying off from his shower. Greg cast an appreciative eye over the expanse of creamy skin, liberally dotted with beard burn and love bites. They’d had to resolve to shower separately, or else they’d never have made their reservation on time. 

“Let me surprise you for once,” Greg reprimanded, slipping up behind him to slide his arms around Mycroft, splaying one hand on his chest, the other low on his belly. He smiled at him over his shoulder, eyes on Mycroft’s in the mirror, “Stop trying to plan everything and let me take the lead, alright darlin’?”

“I suppose,” Mycroft smiled, leaning his head back and sighing when Greg kissed the side of his neck. “Lord, you in a beard…” he reached over his shoulder, rasping his nails lightly over Greg’s facial hair. 

“Like my scruff, do you?” Greg asked, eyes twinkling. He knew for a fact that Mycroft was just as fond of his beard as he was of Mycroft’s--he’d stopped shaving two weeks before, and the dark auburn beard was flourishing nicely. 

“I rather think  _ you _ are  _ my _ scruff,” Mycroft joked. 

Greg kissed his shoulder blade, “That I am, gorgeous, that I am.”

“How am I to know how to dress,” Mycroft continued his argument a few minutes later, having applied deodorant and cologne. He stood in front of the open wardrobe, nude, frowning at his clothes. “If you won’t tell me which restaurant we’re eating at?”

“As if you’re not always the best-dressed, handsomest man in the room,” Greg scoffed, sidling up behind him again, unable to keep his hands off Mycroft. Story of his life, that. Grinning at the thought of the last heady, wonderful, infuriating, exhausting last eleven months, Greg squeezed Mycroft’s bum appreciatively, “Wear those cream trousers that make your arse look like a scoop of ice cream I wanna lick...and the shirt I gave you on your birthday.”

“A scoop of ice cream indeed,” Mycroft scoffed, fighting a smile. He stepped into briefs, then the trousers in question, watching as Greg slipped on the black button down which was Mycroft’s favourite item of his clothing. “Please tell me you’re not wearing pants under those extremely thin trousers.”

Greg pretended to be shocked, “Mr Holmes! I’m surprised you’d suggest such a crude thing.”

“Call me hopeful,” Mycroft suggested, giving his bum an appreciative caress through the thin trousers in question. He smirked widely when his hand detected that Greg was in fact bare beneath his trousers. “Mm _ hmm... _ How long do we have until our reservation?”

“Not  _ that _ much time,” Greg laughed, slipping past him. “C’mon, let’s go.” He couldn’t stop smiling--Mycroft was going to be so surprised! The last year had been one of highs and lows, adjustments aplenty on both sides. Mycroft was at times absurdly generous and lived in a rarefied world, one which had made Greg uneasy at times. But there were things about his life that unsettled Mycroft too, and they’d both learned to adjust.

They were still, he reflected as they walked through the torchlit path as twilight descended, meandering down the mountain hand in hand, both too committed to work. They worked hard--but together they’d learned to play hard as well. It hadn’t all been smooth going, but it had been exciting, at times exhilarating. Less than six weeks after their reconciliation in London they had moved in together. It made sense, seeing as they hadn’t willingly spent a night apart in all that time. More than one friend of Greg’s had cautioned him that he was moving too fast, headed for heartache.

Maybe they were right. But Greg figured a short, dazzling arc with Mycroft was worth any amount of heartache. Didn’t look as though their star were going to crash and burn any time soon though. If anything the fire between them continued to blaze, dazzling to the eye and warming to the heart. Greg wasn’t sure how he’d lived so long without loving Mycroft Holmes. 

As they walked up the path to the French restaurant which had so intimidated Greg last year, Mycroft’s hand tightened around his, “Greg,” he whispered, “This place has  _ three Michelen stars-- _ it must cost a fortune!”

“You let me worry about that, my treat, remember?”

Mycroft actually harrumphed, and Greg shook with laughter as they entered the swanky restaurant. Mycroft was still a bit of an autocrat, stubborn as a mule, and adorably grumpy when he didn’t get his way. Greg supposed it balanced out his own tendency to be laid back to the point of sloth in his personal life, and the fact that he was, as someone had once told him, ‘cheekily and obnoxiously optimistic.’

They were shown to their table, a small, intimate spot in one of the curtained alcoves which hid tiny tables shimmering with candles, looking out of the bow window over the bay. Mycroft, used to fine restaurants and ostentatious surroundings, looked dazzled. His eyes were shining with love and happiness when he looked at Greg. Unable to help himself, Greg leaned in for a kiss as soon as the  _ maître d’ _ had departed. Mycroft smiled against his lips, cupping his jaw in one hand. He hummed happily, “Is that an  _ amuse-bouche?” _ he asked teasingly.

“I thought sir would like a little preview of the delights the evening will hold,” Greg said, pulling out Mycroft’s chair. He sat down, hitching his own chair a bit closer. They wound their fingers together under the table, on Greg’s leg, and he smiled into Mycroft’s eyes, thumb brushing over Mycroft’s palm, “Just a taste of what’s to come.”

“Remind me to thank the chef later,” Mycroft murmured, eyes shining.

The waiter appeared with a discreet cough, “Gentlemen, I have the Champagne you ordered.”

Mycroft was delighted,  _ “Gregory.” _

“Thank you,” Greg told the waiter, handing a flute to Mycroft, eyes on his, telegraphing his love. They waited until they waiter had departed, promising to return shortly with the starters Greg had pre-ordered. He touched his glass to Mycroft’s overflowing with happiness, “Happy anniversary, love.”

Mycroft’s eyes were shining with tears, “One week since we married,” he said in wonder, hand tight around Greg’s, “I still feel like I’m dreaming.”

They’d been quietly married in the office of a friend of Mycroft’s the morning before their flight--just the two of them, with Sally and Anthea as witnesses. Sally told him he was crazy but she was smiling as she said it. If anyone knew how unhappy he’d been before Mycroft it was his partner and friend. She’d also seen just how transcendently overjoyed he was this past year. Anthea had been silent, but smiled like the Mona Lisa the entire time. Greg got the feeling she actually liked him, but would never say so.

“If you’re dreaming, so’m I,” Greg whispered, leaning in for another kiss. He nuzzled his husband’s cheek, “Drink your Champagne, love. We’ve got a feast coming and we’re going to enjoy it. Then when we get back to the room I plan on letting you take me apart in that bed at least twice tonight.”

“Only twice?” Mycroft murmured, lips tugging into a smile, “My my, I must be losing my appeal already if you’re only going to come  _ twice.” _

  
They were still giggling happily when the waiter returned, scarcely noticing as he set down small plates of  duck pâté en croûte and stuffed squid. He drew the curtains closed and moved onto another table, smiling a little to himself. He had a feeling the Holmes-Lestrades were going to be returning here every year for their anniversary. Perpetual honeymooners, the two of them. He knew the look.

**Author's Note:**

> To anyone who thinks moving in together after less than six weeks of dating is unreasonable, my fiancé and I did just that. Sometimes love happens FAST.


End file.
